


After the Fire

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: After the Fire [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Packing, Post Season 1, alien marriage tropes, coming out trans, implied allura/lance, implied klance, lance is surprisingly helpful, pidge is a bossy top, transman pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He refused to let anyone know about the heavy arm draped over his chest. The firm hand on his shoulder designed to send a message to anyone nearby. Pidge didn’t expect things to stay the same. People do strange and extraordinary things when they’re under extreme duress…He hadn’t expected to lose his best friend completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fire

“Shiro,” although it sounds like whoever’s calling him is underwater. “Shiro!” more urgent, but no closer. “Shiro!” a third time followed by a sharp blow to the stomach before he finally regains consciousness and realizes what’s going on. His metal hand wrapped tightly around Pidge’s shoulder. With his heightened sense of touch, he can feel the skin bruising underneath Pidge's space suit.

He lets go abruptly. Pidge slumps forward grabbing his shoulder in pain. “Pidge, I’m sor-“ but he can’t finish the statement as a thousand fire pricked needles shoot across his cybernetic arm. He too doubles over in pain, and everything goes black again.

“Shiro,” called in the distance again. “Shiro please, I need you with me,” and there’s a hint of desperation and urgency in the voice that brings him around again. Pidge’s face gradually comes into focus. He shudders a sigh of relief that he’s not crushing any part of the younger paladin in his grasp.

“We’ve been sent to an unknown location through the wormhole,” Pidge begins without preamble. “As far as I know you and I were the only ones to be sent to this location, although I am unsure. My transmitter is badly damaged. And as you can tell, your arm has been exposed to a caustic Galra agent. If I’m going to fix it I need you to do two things. Stay conscious, and stay in control. No matter how badly it hurts.”

Pidge has been doing maintenance on his arm since his rescue. At this point all it takes is for him to walk into the lab with a certain look on his face. Pidge clears his workbench immediately, grabs his pillow from the near permanent nest he’s made in the far corner of the lab, and lowers the bench. It doesn’t matter if it’s for an upgrade, or something is broken, or just phantom limb pain. Pidge is always willing to look.

It’s never hurt this badly before, and Shiro can barely accomplish the two things Pidge has asked of him. He weaves in and out of consciousness as Pidge strips the external layer of armor in an attempt to remove the bulk of the caustic material.  “I’m going to talk you through this. I want you to answer everything, no matter how mundane. Once again, I need you conscious.”

“Okay.”

“I think your arm might have had a reaction to the materials we were exposed to. Do you remember anything like this happening before?”

“No, nothing.”

“It’s basically caused your internal circuitry to constrict in on itself. It doesn’t matter if it was an arm or a structural beam…Shiro I need to detach these and manually unfold all of the constricted wires. Do you trust me?”

Shiro delirious in pain buries his face in Pidge’s side. His face covered in cold sweat meets smooth space suit and he muffles in reply, “How can you even ask?”

Feather light fingers tap against his inner forearm. Then a thumb catches his wrist and rubs in slow deliberate circles. Pidge’s touch desperately trying to soothe. “This part shouldn’t hurt.”

He flinches when screwdriver meets synthetic muscle, but the inevitable pain he expects never comes. His expression soften, then the tension in his shoulders, and then finally his whole body. Not once did he ever think that the only place in the universe he’d feel safe was under the scrutinizing gaze of a Garrison dropout.  

“This part however,” Pidge warns, “Will hurt.”

Pidge switches to pliers. He can feel every movement Pidge makes as he plucks at the hexagonal connectors that keep his internal cables connected. It feels like he’s disconnecting each one at the base.

“How much of that can you feel?”

“Stings.”

“Okay, un bending the wires will do more than sting.”

Each time Pidge goes to unbend the wires it feels like his arm is being torn from him each time, but something deep in the back of his mind tells him he’s used to this. He’s experienced worse.

“I’m so sorry I have to do this Shiro, but we have no way of knowing if the agent would cause irreparable damage to your arm.”

“Pidge,” he grunts through his teeth in-between flashes of white hot pain “Do what you need to do.”  

Pidge turns his arm over in his lap. “Oh no,” he mumbles. “Shiro the interior side is worse.”

He’s not sure how long they go on like that. Detach, pull reattach. It could’ve been hours or just as easily minutes. Pidge is methodical in his approach but stops every few minutes to rub small circles into his palm. “Shiro it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Shiro, you’re doing so good for me.”

“I’m here Shiro, I’ve got you.”

“Shiro, I think that’s the worst of it.”

“Shiro, you can rest now.”

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately their first night stranded was far from their worst.

The smuggler they’d met two nights prior flaked. Not in the “take the money and run” sense, which was nice because that seemed to happen every time they scrapped together more than a thousand credits for travel. That got real old real quick. Flaked, in the less traditional, but still plausible “gotten arrested for trafficking stolen Galra tech” sense.

This information, to Pidge meant two things. First, it meant that people could, and actually did get arrested on this awful rust hole planet. Which meant they had to be even more careful despite the slew of crimes they witnessed on a nightly basis. Next, it meant another night away from the lions. Another night without working on the broken communication system. Another night spent in a smoke filled Roestian bar with Shiro trying to hustle their way onto an outbound ship piloted by someone that wouldn’t kill them, steal the lions, or both. Sleep was reserved for the few hours right before the sun came up, just after Shiro woke up from his few hours of rest. Only after the ratty mattress in their dismal rented room was free.

“Something’s up,” Shiro mumbles into Pidge’s ear. He motions with a sideways nod of his head to the service door that lead out to the alley. Several Roestian thugs marked by dark leathery vests that nearly blended into their deep red brown abrasive skin stood blocking the exit. Three sets of eyes locked on Shiro and Pidge.

“We come here almost every night, nurse the same drink for hours. We we met our last contact here several times, and now he’s missing.  We’re not exactly on anyone’s good list,” Pidge replies. He steals a glance of the thugs over the rim of his glass. Aggressively he stabs at his ice with his straw and tries his hardest not to stare. It’s difficult not to, these thugs live up to their title of Roestian, and have corroded chunks of skin missing. Holes in ears and hands, they live up to their namesake _rust._

“We should get out of here,” Shiro’s voice is firm, his intuition to be trusted above all others…But Pidge is agitated and desperate to find a new contact.  

“I’m not detecting any weapons on their person, Galra or otherwise,” Pidge responds. Although he hasn’t been able to get the interplanetary communication systems working, and the maintenance on the lions is agonizingly slow, he has been able to make a small ocular overlay attachment for his glasses. The device can show vital signs, scan for weapons, and a myriad of other useful functions. “Besides, Al-Oh said he’d be here by one. We _need_ a new contact.”

They’d been here for twenty eight days. Approximately twenty-seven days too long as far as either of them were concerned. Much longer and the owner of the flop house was going to come pounding on the door for more rent. That meant that in addition to trying to scare up enough money for passage, they would also have to also pay for another week’s stay. Much longer and the locals thinly veiled indifference would give way to open hostility. Much longer and Zarkon _would_ find them, considering the constant flow of transient thugs that came and went at the blink of an eye.

He expects a stern look and a “We’re going,” in Shiro’s captain voice.

Instead Shiro turns in his barstool. Oh, the silent “I’ve decided. We’re going,” approach. Unexpected, but not improbable since they’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. As the days on Roest continue, they have less and less patience for each other.

Pidge turns too, and expects to follow Shiro wordlessly out of the bar. What he does not expect is to be face to face with the three Roestian thugs that have migrated from the doorway to their dark stuffy corner of the bar.

They’re face to face with him and Shiro. One of them barks in Shiro’s direction in gravely thick Roestian.

Pidge’s face contorts in horror as the words are translated across his ocular display. _How much for the boy?_ Anything could be bought and sold openly here. Sex was no exception. It wasn’t the first time Pidge had been solicited or cat called since being stranded, but it was the first time Shiro was around to witness it.

Shiro’s hand is already crackling with sharp purple electric current. His affect tense, unresponsive, and not at all Shiro. Pidge managed to build him an ear piece with similar functions as his ocular overlay, so he too could understand what was going on. As the far more intimidating and diplomatic of the pair, it was imperative that he was an active participant in their negotiations.

“Shiro. Don’t do anything rash,” Pidge said shakily in hopes that those few words communicated all the implications behind breaking the begrudging tolerance the locals had for them. The alternative almost certainly meant death.

 “ _500 credits, or 30 for the night.”_

“Pidge,” he can’t remember ever hearing Shiro’s voice this shaky. “Just go with everything I’m about to say,” He whispers into his ear.

Pidge feels Shiro wrap his muscular biological arm around his waist and pull him closer so that his back is pressed against Shiro’s chest.

_“You insult me. This man is my mate.”_

Pidge hears the words _nak mal kral_ roll off Shiro’s tongue before the overlay has a chance to translate properly.  Pidge goes pale as the translation rolls across his screen. The people of Roeist mated for life. Any proposition or hint of infidelity was a serious cultural offense. He and Shiro could easily kill these men with little to no consequence. Propositioning a mated person was a serious crime. It’s punishment rarely carried out in any court, and most often done by the offended party.

The glow on Shiro’s opposite hand intensified. He stood, but kept Pidge’s hand clamped firmly in his own. Deftly he reached out for the creature closest to his cybernetic hand and encased his arm from hand to shoulder in a caustic glow. Immediately the Roestian doubled over in pain.

“ _Take this as a warning. Any person who accosts my mate will not escape with their life.”_

The entire bar parts as Shiro leads him out of the bar and all but drags him through the tortuous alley ways that led back to their room. Not a word spoken between them; the prospective contact all forgotten.

When they finally made it back to their Pidge can finally see Shiro. The near blinding light of the rust colored moons punctuate the sky and seep in through the single window. Shaking and in a cold sweat as if he just woke from a nightmare. “Pidge, I’m so sorry.”

Shiro sinks to the mattress in exhaustion and frustration.

“For what Shiro?” Pidge responds in an uneven tone. Although he’s visibly shaken too, it’s not Shiro that has elicited this response. “ You saved my life, and it’s still safe, on some level to show our faces in public. I don’t think anyone could’ve engineered such an awful situation to end so well.”

 Shiro pats his cybernetic shoulder. “The aggression, the possessiveness. These are all things the Galra brought out in me. Things I do not want to be anymore. I wanted to kill those men Pidge. It took every ounce of energy I had to only burn one, and not rip them all apart where they stood.”

“Shiro, that’s only a small part of who you are. And you’ve shown you can use it to protect people you care about. Actions made in life or death moments don’t and can’t define who you are as a person.”

“Pidge you don’t get it. In that moment, I viewed you as a thing. _Mine_ , an object to poses. For every bit that it was just macho bullshit there’s a small part of me that was very, very sincere.”

“You’re our leader. You’re called to by your lion to keep the team intact. I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Pidge said in a tone that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than he was Shiro.

Shiro lets out a small sigh and rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Yeah,” he says unconvincingly. “You can sleep first tonight. You’ve been up longer than me.”

“We’ve both been up for a long time.” Pidge says in rebuttal. “We’re both sleeping.”

“I’ll take the floor then,” Although Pidge is usually the one to just fall asleep wherever there’s a flat surface and warmth he’s willing to do it tonight.

“Nonsense.” Pidge rolls over to the far end of the bed that is pushed up against the wall. “I’m small. We can both fit. No arguing,” Pidge yawns. “ I’m too tired for more arguing.”

Shiro finds that both of them do fit, nicely without over crowding the other.

Waking up is another task all together. During the night Pidge has scooted down so his face is near Shiro’s chest, their legs tangled together. Shiro peels himself away and decides it doesn’t really matter. They usually slept in shifts anyway to monitor the security systems on both of the lions. He didn’t see this happening much more in the future.

The moons are still out, and it doesn’t take long for Shiro to decide that they’ve accidentally slept through the day and into early the next evening.

“Hey,” Pidge commands without his eyes so much as half open. “Check my messages will you?”

Shiro nods and goes to the table where Pidge has thrown his communicator. Too weak to send a signal to the castle, its maximum range is one mid-size planet and the neighboring asteroid belt. Not bad for something that had been repaired with rust covered scraps pulled from the garbage.

Did they leave Al-Oh waiting last night? Did they have a new contact? He hits the blinking green button and watches the angular Roestian text unfold on the display. He walks back to Pidge, who’s fumbling for his glasses while simultaneously rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He tosses the communicator on the bed. “We have a possible contact. Cargo transporter who can take us, and our precious freight to the other side of the system. It’s not much, but it won’t be so hostile there.”

“Really!?” Pidge perks up at the news and pushes his glasses up his nose. Pidge scrolls through the text confirming everything Shiro’s just said. Gala!? Shiro I do not do things like galas. Why even have a gala here? Galas are fancy, this place is not.”

By now Shiro’s moved to the crumbling excuse for kitchenette in their room making the pitiful stand in for tea that exits on this planet. “Considering what happened at our usual haunt…I’ll take it. Start getting ready. This thing starts in two hours.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shiro, after last night’s incident we can’t be too careful about anything.”

“Ah-hah” Shiro agrees around his toothbrush aggressively brushing his back teeth.

“And I’d be lying if said I haven’t wanted to try this for awhile. The space suit leaves _nothing_ to the imagination.”

“Ah-ha Wha-?” He says around a mouthful of foam.

Shiro could barely register the blur of green and auburn dashing from one side of their cramped room to the open bathroom door as his teammate.  Pidge never moved that fast unless there was a new robot available…or Hunk was baking.

Shiro rinses his mouth and dries his face with a nearby hand towel. It’s faded and threadbare and because of that matches nicely with the single blanket thrown over the mattress and the poor excuse for curtains Pidge had hastily tacked over the window. “Pidge, mind telling me what’s going on in that big elaborate brain of yours?”

“So, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I estimate at least 89% of the people we’ve seen or encountered here are mammals.” A deep plum colored blush rises from his neck to his cheeks. “Implying the need for sexual reproduction. But my scans have only picked up a handful of females. Like seriously less than 1 in 15 by my estimation. Unfortunately, I think that after last night just saying I’m a guy isn’t enough. What if I get into another tight spot and you’re not there to help me?”

Shiro opens his mouth to interrupt but Pidge keeps going. If he’s somehow put Pidge in more danger by bringing sex and gender into the equation he’ll never forgive himself.

“Just help me with this okay? I’m totally ready for things to look more normal down there. I’ve actually tried this before, but never wore it out. No matter what I do it just doesn’t look right!” Without further warning Pidge drops his shorts.

Now it’s Shiro’s turn to blush. From just below his nose to right above his scar he goes red.  They’re close, always have been, but right now he’d rather not be so trusted to see his ~~teammate~~ ~~bestfriend mate~~ Pidge in this state of undress.

But in the end he did sort of contribute to all of this didn’t he? Before last night they were just outsiders. Culturally ignorant and possibly dangerous people that did not belong. Now? He’d assigned them to certain roles. Partners…mates and solidified Pidge’s gender. Even possibly placing them, and definitely Pidge, in more danger if the charade was discovered. Pidge stands before him with slumped shoulders, hair flung in the face. It makes his mouth go dry. “Pidge, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing. I’ve never uh…had that problem before, but I will do my best. I’ll see what I can do.

The tension evaporates from Pidge’s shoulders. “Thank you Shiro.”

And if they were anywhere else right now, Shiro would laugh at the sight of Pidge thanking him with his pants around his ankles. He’d laugh until he could cajole Pidge into doing the same. Unfortunately, they did not have the luxury. 

See,” Pidge says looking toward his crotch. “It just doesn’t _look_ right. “

Shiro looks down to where Pidge’s gaze is settled. There’s a small lumpy bulge, barely noticeable from his oversized cargo shorts when zipped. Shiro has helped his team deal with homesickness, their love hate relationships with each other, and a myriad of other teenage emotions. Yet, he never thought he’d have to help one of his teammates with something he took for granted every day of his life.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe try moving it. You know more towards the front.”

Pidge complied and looked back into the mirror. “A little better,” as if he’s troubleshooting a problem in his code, and didn’t shuck his pants moments ago. He has several options to compare it to. The paladin armor leaves very little to the imagination. Not to mention that Pidge is absolutely certain that after their days in the Garrison he could, pick Lance and Hunk out of an anonymized line up with 100% accuracy.

“Have you tried pinning it in place?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm…” Shiro rubs his hand across his chin. “Wait, I’ve got it!” His face lit up like he’d solved a tactical problem, and hadn’t been staring at Pidge’s crotch for the last five minutes. He walks to the small basket he keeps under the bed and pulls out a pair of black briefs. Although things like underwear that fit humans are scarce here, he doesn’t exactly plan on sticking around for much longer. Shiro hands Pidge  the crumpled mass of fabric. “I think part of the problem is what you’ve got currently. They’re not really designed for anything…ah extra.”

 Pidge unfolds the fabric in his hand and scowls, not completely sold on wearing his captain’s underthings.

“They’re clean!”

“Will they fit?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“Okay,” Pidge mumble and ducks into the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you ever do this before? It seems like it would be a natural part of blending in,” he asks Pidge from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Oh…I could hide it pretty well back in the academy. My clothes at home weren’t as tight as my space suit…and,” Pidge unlocks the door and steps out. “I think I just had to be ready. I’m ready now. Necessity and innovation. Or however the proverb goes.”

“It’s ‘necessity is the mother of innovation’.”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Pidge replies.

 “Okay, what do you think? Not bad for a sock huh?” Pidge’s trying his best to wear a cocky smile, despite his nervousness

“No,” Shiro looked at his teammate and immediately at the floor in embarrassment. “It’s really not bad at all.”

“Hey!” Pidge snapped with a slight air of impatience. He stepped into Shiro’s space so he could look him square in the eye.  “Stop blushing. We might have to act tonight. So be ready for more of that pseudo tough guy stuff you pulled last night and less of this blushing teenager nonsense.”

Shiro wants to respond that he is in fact a blushing teenager until he realizes just how stupid that makes him sound in the context of the last twenty-four hours. Pidge is right. He really needs to get over it and protect his _mate_ at all costs.

 

 

* * *

 

The underbelly of Roest is small, and by now they’ve received several comments on their “arrangement” by several of the regulars who recognize them from _The Crusted Sprog,_ Roest’s most repugnant dive, and frequent scouting spot for both of them.

It begins with Al-Oh slapping him on the back with his rough rusty hand and exclaiming that “He really should’ve known,” and “It seems quite obvious now.”  

Shiro takes a cautious step away from the Roestian and attempts to change the subject. “Who is the new contact, and is he here yet?”

Al-Oh explains that he is in fact, not here yet though they could’ve met him last night if they’d showed. His name is Rong-Grang and he should be here before the nights’ end. Al-Oh urges them to “mingle because you never know what kind of favors you can buy at a party like this,” and disappears into the crowd.

From there it gets worse.  A Krangian man is there making a big show of rotating around the room with his trail of collared and leashed concubines of multiple genders and species. And although he’s the one who wants to get a reaction, both Shiro and Pidge _feel_ five pairs of eyes on them as he walks past with his harem. They hear the much too loud whispers of

“Him?”

“With him?”

“With the gladiator,” A woman with neon pink skin corrects.

After that Shiro tries to steer them out on the balcony where there are fewer people, but it does little good. It takes no time at all for Pidge to be approached by a svelte Roestain woman dressed head to toe in gold chains. She grabs Pidge’s hand, “You’re so lucky to have such a devoted and handsome partner,” she says in a deep syrup coated voice. Because even though the bond between mates are rare, very few beings on Roest actually mate. With the constant flux of trafficked slaves there is little need. 

“This,” Pidge leans against the balcony’s railing and absent mindedly plucks at a few of the decorative ivies growing over the edge before he realizes what he’s doing and raises his eyebrows in shock. The rust planet is particularly barren of plant life, and these ivies covering the terrace must have cost a small fortune. “Is absolutely awful.” 

“That is the understatement of the century,” Shiro hangs close not losing contact with some part of Pidge since they’d arrived. The contact was moving out of fashionably late territory and into not showing up territory. Despite the level of awkward and uncomfortable Al-Oh’s guests had managed to wring out of both of them, Shiro sensed no immediate danger. It was probably best to see if he’d show up eventually. “I want to go back through the main room and see if any new guests have arrived. Maybe he’s here.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Pidge says. “I’m staying here though. I don’t think I can handle more comments and staring,” he adds.

“That’s fair, but-“ Shiro furrows his brow. He’s not forgetting last night so quickly. Not with all eyes seemingly on them.

“It’s fine Shiro.” Pidge gestures to his communication device, and then to his hip. “I have my bayard too.”

“Okay but-“ He looks around furtively making sure that in fact yes, they were still being stared at with equal parts suspicion and jealousy from most of the party goers outside. Quickly mouths “I’m sorry” and hauls Pidge up by the spandex part of his space suit and deposits a kiss firmly on his mouth. “If anything get’s weird…Let me know immediately.”   

Pidge is left dumbstruck and in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

“Pidge how many of those have you had?” He gestures to the empty champagne flute limply dangling from Pidge’s gloved hand.  He’d been gone longer than anticipated, nearly thirty minutes looking for their new contact. Al-Oh got him cornered and introduced him to a machinist. Which, if the guy turned out to be anything less than completely crooked could be useful. There were larger parts of both lions that had been critically damaged, and neither Shiro or Pidge had the strength or the equipment to fix it alone.

“Oh, I don’t know, tree?” Pidge responds. “Why?”

“Because they contain a pretty strong Roestian liquor. Al-Oh’s been nursing the same one the entire time I’ve been talking to him and he’s kind of slurring his words together. Plus you just said ‘tree’ like it was a number.”

“Oh.” Pidge looks down at the flute. “I had no idea. They taste like grape soda.” Pidge wrinkles his nose in further response. “You know. Tree.  Somewhere between two and three.”

“That makes even less sense Pidge.”

“Anyway,” Pidge brushes off the remark, rights himself, and takes a step away from the railing he’s been leaning against for quite some time. “At least I’m not slurring.” To prove takes a few steps in Shiro’s direction so he can say exactly what’s on his mind with perfect pronunciation. Left foot right foot no problem.

“Pidge!” before stumbling right into Shiro’s arms.

“You’re not slurring your wobbly.” Great, because he really needs to add intoxication to the current list of threatening and possibly bad things that could happen to Pidge tonight.

“Maybe I’m a little wobbly. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. It happens.”

“Even to you Shiro?” Because the thought of his captain imbibing too much is ultra unrealistic and makes him giggle into Shiro’s chest.

“Yes Pidge even to me. When I was in the Garrison I learned that if I’d had half as much as you did tonight I’d be twice as wobbly” 

“Really!?” Pidge’s already glassy eyes go wide beneath his spectacles. “I CANNOT imagine something so absurd,” Pidge says a little too loudly for the quite terrace, and then bursts into another fleeting round of giggles.

“Yeah, that’s why you’ll rarely see me with anything other than water anywhere. C’mon let’s sit down for a bit,” because even though anyone in the room might have motive to kill them, having a 120 pound liability swung over his shoulder is definitely worse. Maybe, just maybe their contact will still manage to make it.

“Shiro,” Pidge rests his head on the other man’s shoulder, wraps his arms around his middle, and all but melts into him, “You smell so nice.”

Shiro wants to grab the other paladin by the shoulders and sternly tell him that he knows that alcohol causes lowered inhibitions, so cut it out. But causing a scene wouldn’t exactly be best.  Especially considering the lie he’s fed this entire planet’s high society…The lie that most of them seem to have bought.

 “Stop it Pidge.” His voice is stern yet soft. He makes no effort to distance himself from the man who is practically joined with him at the hip, their faces mere centimeters apart. “None of this will matter to you tomorrow.

“I think it will.” Pidge nods slightly to his own words. “What did Lance always say when he snuck out to the local bars for a pint? Drunk actions are sober wishes?” He giggled softly. “Besides. You kissed me earlier. In front of all of these people. We’re supposed to be _nak mal kral_.”

Shiro didn’t need a translation. _Mates._ “Yes, I did-“ but his well thought out explanation of why was suddenly interrupted by a harsh tap on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a grave laden voice interrupted. “Al-Oh told me you were waiting for me.”

Shiro does his best to untangle himself from Pidge’s limp grasp and rise. Both turn around only to be face to face with the very Roestian Shiro had taken by the hand and crippled only one night prior. Shiro immediately steps between Pidge and the very angry, very aggressive Rostean.

“But I don’t deal with greater apes that get a taste of intergalactic power and think they own the damn universe.”

“Then you’ll understand that although Al-Oh’s referral is appreciated, we do not want to conduct any business with you or your caravan.” Shiro electrifies his hand up to the elbow this time as if to solidify his point.

“Of course,” the Roestian replies with more than a hint of rancor in his voice. Then wastes no time getting himself and Pidge as far away as he possibly can from Al-Oh’s party.

 

 

* * *

 

Pidge, whom he considered among the most emotionally literate and interpersonally competent (he was a communication recruit in his class right?) person he knew, was really bad at picking up on hints. He seemed to have no idea that things done in the heat of the moment as acts…were just that. 

Pidge pulled himself from bed the next morning with out a single sign that he was any worse for the wear. (Shiro could only wish that he could imbibe like that and have no after effects the next day) From the moment he woke up Pidge showered him with lazy, open mouthed kisses.

Try to disentangle himself from Pidge’s iron sleep grip in the morning. Kiss. Pidge is upset that his code is broken. Kiss. Another failed night at the _Crusted Sprong_ and Pidge is hauling him downwards in the alleyway before they can even get home for a frustrated kiss tinged with demanding and anger. “It’s all part of the act,” Pidge insists, even when there isn’t a soul around to see them.

Despite a voice in the back of his mind telling him firmly to do so, he can never fully deny that he doesn’t want this just as much. It appeals too much to indigent, tampered with part of his mind that yearns to own and be owned.

As such, he can never deny Pidge. _Anything. Ever._  Another deal falls through, another night backed up against the abrasive embrace of Roestain architecture. Pidge’s knee is jammed between his thighs. Pidge’s mouth claiming his needy and demanding. 

It doesn’t help that he willingly escalates the situation.

It’s before noon, but the suns hang swollen and heavy in the sky. They’ve been trying, with little success, to open a maintenance auxiliary panel on Green’s front right arm. Pidge is absolutely convinced that if he can access that panel he can bypass the typical combat protocol, and at least get the lion moving and responsive once again.

The problem is he’s been trying to open the panel since dawn to no avail.

“Ugh, this is the worst.” Pidge flops onto his back, seemingly unaware the scorching heat of the red rust sand beneath. “I’m so close, but so far.” Pidge sits up, peels off his loose fitting sleeveless shirt, and dabs his forehead with it. It says a lot, that Pidge would let him see him like this, only in his binder.

“You need to take your mind off things,” Shiro says with a slight grin. Although it’s unfortunate that Pidge is having no success, he was able to use Pidge’s code and augmented protocol to finally get a response from Black. It didn’t even matter how mild. Her eyes were on, the displays were crude, and for whatever it was worth he was able to turn on the locator device. Given the dismal state of lion repair over the past month and a half, this was a considerable accomplishment.

“What do you suggest?” Pidge asked, his interest clearly piqued despite not having spared Shiro a passing glance.

“Your hand to hand combat is getting rusty with me here all the time to protect you.”

He doesn’t miss Pidge rolling his eyes despite the glare on his glasses.

“And the attacks haven’t stopped.” Because apparently even if you were _nak mal kral_ offending the Planet’s most dangerous smuggler didn’t bode well, no matter who you were or how powerful you are. “Spar?”

Pidge hops down from his perch near Green’s disjointed panels. “Fine.” He says after his feet hit the ground.

“I’ll start easy on you.”

“No need,” Pidge replies going for Shiro’s left.

_Block_

Then the right

_Block_

Then the chest.

_Block_

It continues like this for a while, with Shio allowing Pidge to throw as many blows as he pleases, and blocking them relentlessly. Then finally lands something. A left jab.

That’s as good as it gets.

First Pidge’s feet are swept out from under him. Then his arms pinned above his head. Then the all consuming fire that is Shiro to his left, and his right, and above.

“You need to alternate between blocking, dodging, and trying to hit. I didn’t even have to try to land a blow. You were doing all the work for me,” he breathes too closely into Pidge’s ear.

“Somehow, I don’t think you mind,” and Pidge rises to the hypnotic mixture of heat and friction that Shiro’s body provides.

Pidge knows he’s absolutely 100% in no way hallucinating when Shiro grinds back. His body hard and heat and everything that’s ever been hinted at in the brief moments before dawn and before bed that he can really _feel_ Shiro.

 _Then_ it dawns on him that this is the first time Shiro has done anything other than play along. He won’t push Pidge away when he tries to cuddle closer in the middle of the night. He kisses back. He always, always obeys when Pidge has him backed into a corner or against a wall. Shiro never protests when his hands are shoved down his pants ordering him, “Shiro, come for me.”

But this is the first time that Shiro has done anything to make his own need-desire-want known without Pidge demanding to see it.   It’s almost hard for Pidge to believe it’s real. “Again, I want to try again,” he demands.

Shiro is pulled from the trance that is Pidge, warm and half naked beneath him.  “Sure.”

He helps him up of the ground, but after that the gloves come off again. This time, Shiro doesn’t even wait for him to tire himself out with relentless attacks.

Pidge dodges a jab, then a kick. Lands a kick to the chest and it’s weak, so that when he tries to move in a quick downward motion and go for Shiro’s knees all Shiro has to do is move faster and pin him down. This time prone, his cheek pressed into the brown rust and moldy lichens that grow freely. Behind him Shiro one arm draped across Pidge’s chest holding him forward the other holding his own body weight. Between them nothing sharp mutual desire.

Without a word he turns them back over as they were before. He grabs the bulge in Pidge’s pants through his shorts. “Are you hard because of me Pidge?” Because it’s hard to tell when physiology doesn’t match the situation.

“Yes,” Pidge replies like the response is sacred. “Yes Shiro.”

By the time they’re done night has fallen. They don’t even take the time to change clothes before heading off to the _Cog_ and then the _Sprog_ before ending the night at the _Widget_ looking for some unturned stone, some unsolicited and alienated transporter.

 

* * *

 

 

Little changes after that afternoon in the rust fields.

Pidge does make progress on Black. Gets her wing array to move outward, which is good because it acts as a dual signal antennae. By his own estimation their rescue beacon now extends into at least the next three galaxies. Not that that means much, size of the universe considered.

Shiro still lets him manhandle him. He bites his neck til it’s covered in possessive purple blotches in the back of the _Cog._  Or he’ll sit on Shiro’s chest in the morning before they start they start their day and kiss him deeply. Shiro never ever says no, but never initiates again after the rust fields. Shiro will occasionally moan in protest when he does finally pull away. Those moments light a fire in Pidge that no bot, or code, or space craft ever could.

After the rust fields little changes between them…

Until one evening that Shiro goes out on his own. Pidge’s been ambushed and catcalled the last three nights they’ve gone out and quite frankly does not have the energy to deal with another thug hiding for them in the shadows of some pungent bar. The last two nights someone’s been snooping around the lions. Despite the dual wave force fields Pidge’s installed he’s not taking any chances.

Besides, he’s convinced he’s close to a breakthrough. For all intents and purposes, Black is working. The systems are going and the parts read on the diagnostic report as functional. So why she’s not moving….Well that remains a mystery.

It didn’t stop him from sending Shiro out all the same. Although they’d been here for two months without a successful lead on a way out, it didn’t mean that they could stop trying. Green’ systems were still largely unresponsive, and it was going to take more than a single lion functioning lion to get all of them off the planet.

Pidge rotated Black’s interior sprockets.

Then used the generator that powered their apartment to recharge the magnetic armor coating.

Checked the diagnostic log file.

Didn’t understand the diagnostic log file…So he made some tea and thought about it…Then checked the file again. And again. And again until he could see the sun peaking over the horizon. He curls up on black’s paw and doesn’t give it another thought.

“Pidge,” A familiar voice beckons. “Pidge wake up. C’mon Pidge we don’t have much time.”

“Shiro!?” Pidge scrambles for his glasses and in his sleep filled confusion knocks a set of tools, his mug of tea, and his glasses off Black’s paw before swatting lamely at Shiro’s chest.

“Here,” Shiro picks up the glasses and places them directly in Pidge’s hand. “I’ve got us a way out of here, but we better hurry before he changes his mind and comes after us.”

“Shiro what are you talking about? You have a way off?”

“Yeah, look.” He points to a large cargo transporter parked less than a few hundred meters away from where they’ve kept the lions stowed away.

“How!?”

“I um…Finally played that guy in cards. And won… and won…and kept winning.”

Pidge’s eyes go wide. “Crazy eyed Saul? You won…His transport. Oh no! I mean oh yes. I mean...I need to get my tablets. Get the lions.”

 

* * *

 

“Where to first co-captain?” Shiro hums from his spot on the bridge. From the left they can see the rust colored whirls of Roest. Good riddance. Ahead, nothing but galaxies and solar systems. One of which contained their friends.

“Well, I’ve started transmitting a unique Altean signal that Coran and Alura will have to recognize as one of our own. So, really we can go search anywhere as long as we’re transmitting.”

“Great. Markarian looks closest. Want to start there?”

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Like a fever before it breaks, burning hotter than ever before in one last desperate attempt at holding on they clung to one another. Hands-lips-teeth-skin, it had never before been so mutual, so urgent, so natural.

Shiro didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pull back with that far away look in his eyes.  He was fresh from the shower, and his hair was still damp. “The captain’s quarters are huge Pidge,” He says drying his hair with a proper towel for the first time in months. “Can you please put the ship on autopilot for the night?” Those were the last words spoken between them before he pushed Pidge down on the bed.  

For once Pidge almost felt completely in harmony with his body despite being laid bare besides binder, briefs, and sock. It was truly amazing what hands over thin cotton clothes could do for both of them.

Pidge fell asleep cradled in Shiro’s bare chest his arm draped around him. Pidge fell asleep knowing that even this two month long fever dream, would end.

Hunk found them the next day. They’d drifted through the Markarian with little incident or radio activity and meandered into the next. Then the next, and then they picked up a signal. Faint, albeit unmistakably one of theirs.

“Oh my god Lance, Pidge, Keith, Shiro!? Who is this?”

“HUNK!” Pidge screamed into the comm link. It’s me and Shiro. I already sent us our coordinates. Please come get us and take us home!”

“Heck YES I will! It’s about time we found _somebody_. Aw man I am going to make the best celebration dinner when we get home.”

Shiro muted their end of the comm. “He listed all of us. I guess that means that Keith and Lance have yet to be recovered.”

Pidge’s smile pinched into a frown. “It’ll go faster right? Three lions and a castle?”

 

* * *

 

It took them an additional week to find Keith and Lance. Stranded on a primitive planet with less viable tech that Roest. Pidge and Hunk had to do hours of combined analysis and surveillance to recover them. They used last emitted signals and asked locals if they’d come across a giant lion.

With the team reunited it took next to no time for things to return to almost normal, and to almost forget that the wormhole incident never occurred.

“You look like a disaster.” He quipped to Lance upon finding him in a remote outpost more than 2500 klicks from the nearest village.

“Nice to see you too Pidge.”

“Seriously, your hair.” He laughed between gloved fingers. “You’re starting to look like him. You know a mu-“

“Don’t you dare say it. How dare you greet your friend, tired, hurt and frail in the wilderness like this. I could be dying due to exposure right now for all you know.”

“You’re not. I did a complete body scan as soon as I detected human life in this area.”

It took no time at all for the fragile truce between Keith and Lance to evaporate, even less time for Shiro to grow distant and cold. No sparring, no late night visits to the lab, no repairs, no chess.

On the surface neither showed any evidence that things were different before. They were still cordial in passing, still able to form Voltron without difficulty. A small stubborn part of him refused to let anyone know a shred of what happened to them on Roest. It was a series of events so personal and bizarre, he didn’t think that his other teammates could even begin to understand.

He refused to let anyone know about the heavy arm draped over his chest. The firm hand on his shoulder designed to send a message to anyone nearby. Pidge didn’t expect things to stay the same. People do strange and extraordinary things when they’re under extreme duress…He hadn’t expected to lose his best friend completely.

“Whatcha doin’ Pidgeon,” Lance entered the lab and pulled Pidge from his thoughts. His hand lazily scratches at the base of his long scraggly hair.

“Code,” Pidge replies dully. “Just code.”

“You game to trim this mop?” Lance asks gesturing to his hair. “You’re right. It looks awful.”

That manages to get a small smile from Pidge. He won’t listen to his advice any other time, but one off handed comment about a mullet and he’s doing exactly as he says. “Yeah, let me get my stuff.” Pidge pats the desk char pulled across the opposite side of the room and most often used as a step stool. “Have a seat.”

Pidge returns a moment later with a box full of supplies and a sheet to drape across Lance’s shoulders.

“So, you’re in like with Shiro.”

_Snip_

“You’re in like with a mullet.”

_Snip snip_

“While simultaneously smitten by a girl that’s….Oh yeah way out of your league.”

“Uncalled for!”

“He cradled you in his arms.”  

_Snip_

“Neither of you will talk about what happened on Roest.”

_Snip_

“I think you’re projecting some wish fulfilment onto me, since of the seven people in the castle you’re hopelessly in love with _two_ of them. Neither seem to be interested.” Pidge furrows his brow, less in assessment of the discussion at hand and more at the situation at hand. He doesn’t know _who_ cut Lance’s hair last, but their skills left a lot to be desired. Like seriously. Did Keith cut his hair while they were stranded? It would explain a thing or two about the uneven locks. Carefully, he grasped a few more strands of hair between his fore and middle finger and snipped off the excess hair.

“You’re not exactly forthcoming about your time away either,” Pidge quips. 

“You wanna know all the steamy details Pidgeon?” Lance makes sure to raise the hand mirror Pidge gave him at the beginning of the session and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively so Pidge can see.

“That’s why he told you to lovingly, ‘fuck off’,’ over breakfast?”

“Have you even let him know?” he retorts.

“I believe in having a sense of…tact,” Pidge offers in response to both questions.

_Snip snip snip_

“Well whatever happened. I don’t think you’ll be able to work through it alone.”

“Sage advice coming from mullet jr.”

“You won’t know til you try,” Lance pouted. “You almost done? You’re especially snarky today and I’d like to avoid being the subject of further mullet jokes.

“Yeah,” Pidge replied. “I’m done. Check the mirror and make sure everything’s ok.”

“Lookin’ good.” Lance flashes a toothy smile into the mirror. “Thanks buddy,” he says as he rises from Pidge’s chair and tousles his hair lightly as he turns to leave.

Pidge sets out the sweeping drone and dims the lights. No need for the lab to be this bright if he’s just going to go back to coding.

* * *

 

 

“Barber shop still open?””

“Hm?”Pidge has had just long enough time to push Lance’s unsolicited advice out of his mind and bury himself in his code. The green lion’s cloaking technology is great, but there is so much more that could be done with this kind of technology… “Oh!” Pidge looks up from his screen. “Shiro.” His voice softens ever so slightly.

He crosses the threshold into the lab, grabs a half finished project off the work bench, (his and Hunk’s zero G nerf gun) and watches in horror as  a few of the components fall out of their place. Quickly the older man tries to grasp all the loose pieces and return it to the table before Pidge can actually notice. “If you’re still willing, it’s gotten a little long.” Shiro runs his metallic hand from the nape of his neck to the back of his skull where his undercut stops.

“Yeah,” Pidge chortles. “It’s almost touching your ears.”

“The back too!” Shiro says in the closest thing Shiro can muster to a whine, somewhere between a question and, I’m trying to act normal please buy it. “I haven’t had a haircut…since before..”

“We didn’t have the right stuff,” Pidge responded lamely. It’s the first time either of them have even done so much as indirectly mention Roest.

Pidge gets up from the place he was seated on the floor and removes his keypad and portable monitors from the chair. After Lance left he began using as a makeshift desk. His actual desk was covered in more “in progress” projects, so it just made sense to set up camp on the floor with the chair as desk. “Of course Shiro.”

He gestures for Shiro to sit and pulls the sheet that hasn’t been put away yet across Shiro’s chest and around his shoulders. Pidge doesn’t exactly know why he’s been the one tasked with cutting everyone’s hair. Hunk said something once about him having the most tools and the most patience. He’d never admit to secretly like being saddled with this additional task. Spending time with each one of his teammates like this, even if it was only once every few months when they looked in the mirror and realized they looked awful, was nice.

The buzz of the clippers is much more consistent and far more soothing than the sudden and cacophonous _snick snack_ of the scissors. Pidge removes the plastic guard on the end for longer hair bringing the clippers down to their lowest setting. Slowly, carefully, as if he’s gotten the chance to do maintenance on a Glurge Bot or reverse engineer a space colony repair system he takes the clippers to Shiro’s undercut and shears the jet black hair there.

He refuses to admit that despite the weeks of subsequent silence, he likes this. Feels relieved that Shiro is here. They’re just here. Pidge and Shiro doing nothing in particular in between trying to save the universe.

 _“You probably can’t work through it alone_ ,” echoes in the back of his mind. _You won’t know until you try,”_ quickly follows. What happened to Lance while they were gone that made him so….stupidly sensible?

“Careful around the ears,” Shiro warns. “It tickles when you get close.” Shiro’s words pulled Pidge from rumination.

“Yeah,” Pidge’s expression softens as he rests his free hand against Shiro’s shoulder. “But if I don’t get there, it won’t look right.” Pidge takes a few more swipes at the back of Shiro’s head evening things out. Then, he presses against the shell of Shiro’s right ear moving it away from the approaching clippers. “Does that tickle?”

“ Not at all.” To the point he seems to breathe a sigh of relief. “You’re always so accommodating Pidge…” his voice trails off as if there were more to that thought he dare not speak.

Pidge moves to the other side being just as careful of Shiro’s left ear. “You’re a little long up here too.” Pidge cards a hand through the longer part of Shiro’s jet black hair. “Can I?”

“Please.”

Pidge switched to the scissors and snipped away.

“There,” he says after a few moments. He combs Shiro’s patch of white hair back into place across his forehead. Tries his absolute hardest to not let his fingers linger anywhere longer than they should. “Much better. Right?” He goes for the hand mirror. At this point it firmly belongs to him, but at one point he definitely blatantly stole it from Allura’s vanity. The delicate pink and green embossed enamel on the back of the mirror make it painfully out of place with the rest of his things.

“Much, much better. Thank you so much Pidge.” He runs a finger through the white patch at the front of his scalp.

Pidge unties the sheet around Shiro’s neck and presses a button at the console to dispatch a housekeeping drone to sweep up all the bits of shorn hair from the floor.

 “Lab’s pretty lonely without you,” Pidge says in a near inaudible whisper.

“Yeah,” Shiro wrings his metal fingers in-between his biological ones. A rare sign that his typically overflowing confidence is wavering. “We should probably talk about what happened. Eventually it’s going to effect the team, and our ability to form Voltron.”

Pidge gives a half nod, his attention directed inwardly. If the hours of crappy soap operas, dramas, and romcoms Hunk has left on in the background “for noise” and not at all serious viewing has taught him anything, it’s never good when a ~~current~~ former partner says any variation of, “we need to talk.”

“Yeah…” Pidge agrees.

“Okay, sit. I will make us some tea.” The intergalactic black market could be a terrifying place, but Earth’s tea was rated among the best and it meant that they could always get leaves for a price

Pidge nods unable to properly respond due to the lump in his throat. He silently wishes they’d started talking while he was still cutting Shiro’s hair. The idea of having something to do with his hands seems like a saving grace…Although Shiro might’ve worried he’d botch the end result.

“What would you like? Nobody touched our stuff while we were gone. We still have matcha, oolong, Darjeeling.”

“Matcha,” he manages to reply.

“Not surprising. I’ll be right back”

Pidge settles into the dingy couch in the back corner of the lab. A chess game begun before Allura’s capture sits on the console. Log files written in Pidge’s scratchy hand placed on the other side of the console, the end table, and were peeking out from the cushions in the couch. Shiro was still learning how to play, and Pidge liked to keep records for him so he could go back and review his mistakes.

 In more than fifty some odd games spread out over months and months Shiro had only managed to beat him once.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Pidge,” Shiro’s cybernetic hand leaves his side, and taps the top of his bishop gingerly with his index finger. “Is there a reason you’re so distracted tonight?”_

_“Huh?” Pidge pulls away from the tablet he’s got balanced on their knees. As a beginner, Shiro always takes much longer than him to make a move. Luckily he doesn’t consider it rude when he tries to get some work done in the interim. But his question, as much as he’d like to pretend he didn’t hear it cuts through their cozy silence like Voltron’s blade. As much as he’d like to play coy he can’t quite put the pieces back together again._

_“No,” he takes a moment to push his glasses up the bridge of his freckled nose. He shifts lightly so that all Shiro can see is the thick glare of the lenses. “I don’t think so.”_

_“Okay then,” he picks up the bishop and moves it the appropriate number of spaces. The piece settling back down with a soft clunk. “Check mate.”_

_“Huh!?” Pidge sat up with a start and sent her tablet flying. “Wait no!” Pidge’s eyes darted from the board to the sloppy log they  kept on scratch paper. Hastily he  flipped through a couple of pages before his eyes softened and his shoulders slumped. Knight to F8, there it was…a chain of critical errors set into motion. “Darn it.”_

_“Like I said,” Shiro paused letting it grow calm between them once more. “You’re distracted. Look. It’s not even 2 AM.”_

_Pidge looked at the small digital readout on the console. He was right. 1:47 AM. A game such as this one, started 11:30 could’ve easily lasted another two or three hours, and then abandoned for a few rare hours of sleep only to be returned to again the next evening._

_“Wanna play again.” Which is Shiro for “I’m not ready to let go of this yet._

_Soon enough Shiro has him cornered again going in and out of check every couple of moves. Pidge cannot escape, but can’t quite bring himself to forfeit._

_He moves the king out of danger again, removes his glasses, and pinches the corner of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Shiro’s drawn him out in a way that only Shiro can. “You were one of the first to know about my secret,” he begins._

_He sets the glasses on the console and looks directly at Shiro. It seems like some intimate gesture, a baring of the soul. The fact of the matter is, this makes it easier when he’s all blurry and he can’t watch him see through. “You called me Katie, and yes I used to be her. But…” He sloppily rotates from one nervous action to the next, wringing his hands, picking at a stray thread in his tunic. “But I don’t think I can ever be Katie again.” He says it in a single breath, and when he’s done he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “I’m Pidge now. I’m not a girl named Katie anymore. Just Pidge…A guy named Pidge…who pilots a giant semi-sentient lion robot that connects with other giant semi-sentient lion robots to make one giant robot lion.”_

_“Okay, Pidge.” Shiro’s voice is calm, collect, and nothing but Shiro. “For me that’s not a problem. I’ll like you no matter what.”_

* * *

 

Honestly, it seems so innocent and simple now. He could’ve never guessed that a few months later Shiro would be staring at him in his underwear trying to help him go stealth.

Shiro returns with two steaming mugs of green tea grasped in one hand, and a plate of something stolen from the kitchen. He leaves the plate on the console and hands one mug to Pidge. “Hunk made gyoza, and I figured you hadn’t eaten anything in awhile.” Then joins him on the couch. Close enough they can feel each other’s body heat, but not quite touching, it drives Pidge crazy.  

Pidge wants to say something snarky in response. “You can’t go mothering me when you’re about to break my heart,” or something along those lines, but can’t bring himself to do so. It’s 16:00 hours, and he hasn’t eaten anything since the night before. He takes the chopsticks and manages to eat a few bites before deciding that it’s too difficult and leaves the rest for Shiro.

“Pidge,” Shiro begins in his captain’s voice. The one that radiates confidence and inspires all the paladins to do some really stupid, really reckless things. This is followed by a hand on the shoulder. The hand on the shoulder technique was used after the broader inspirational speech and implemented just before the individual words of wisdom meant to inspire the doubter, the naysayer, and cajole them into something that was good for the team and bad for the individual.  It was the exact opposite of fingertips lingering on each other for a bit too long over a passed mug of tea or the tense, far too enjoyable friction of being body checked while sparring.  So different from the feeling of their bodies pressed together on a mattress that was too small, on a planet that was too hot.

“I think that what happened on Roest was a mistake. What happened… _what I did_ was reckless. The person I became was rough and uncontrolled. I put my own desire first, and it put you in danger. It’s the kind of behavior I try to avoid at all costs.”

A sharp blush rises to Pidge’s cheeks as he recalls being pushed to the ground in the rust fields. At that memory every nerve in Pidge’s body screamed inwardly. How could Shiro not understand that he too was a willing participant?

“It detracts from our mission as paladins, and perhaps even more importantly, it detracts from your personal mission to find your family.”

Pidge smolders for a minute unable to look Shiro in the eyes. He has to choose his words carefully. It’s not often that someone gets to deliver a passionate, albeit a bit angry, speech to the otherwise inspirational team leader. But who was he to decide what was and was not detracting from his mission to find Dad and Matt?

“A mistake? A mistake?” Pidge repeats.

“I’m sorry Shiro. I can’t accept that. I can accept that people do crazy things under duress. I can accept that people, when under pressure don’t always make the best decision. I can accept that _both_ of us made a choice in how to go about getting off that rust hole planet, and I can accept that in retrospect it has _caused_ as many problems as it solved. But, I cannot accept this self-righteous interpretation that every stupid choice we made rode completely on you. I got the best sleep I’ve ever had crammed between you and the wall. Everything that happened I wanted to happen, and I think you did too.“

“Pidge-“

“Let me finish Shiro,” he says in a determined tone. “Just because you have a certain level of guilt over what happened with my family…don’t think that repressing whatever you might have felt for me when we were stranded will somehow absolve you of that. You have to deal with those issues separately…Honestly,” Pidge’s resolve and his voice started to crack. “I just want my friend back.” He takes his glasses off and holds him in his lap so he can look at Shiro, blurry and unfocused.   “I know things can’t go back to the way they were before, and I know we can’t keep living like the way we did on Roest. But, I was also hoping I wouldn’t lose you entirely.”

Shiro doesn’t reply right away. Instead he carefully takes the glasses from Pidge’s lap, unfolds the earpieces and sets them on the bridge of his nose. Softly, he cups his chin, forcing them to look eye to eye once again. “Pidge, I’m sorry…” his voice trails off for a moment, and he furrows his brow in thought. “I’m used to speaking in terms of combat. In terms of tactics, morale. I’ve never told anyone I loved them before…”

Pidge’s eyes go wide. Love!? He loves computers. He loves robots. He loves Green. He loves it when Hunk bakes. Love!? What exactly was that supposed to mean?

He lets go of Pidge’s chin in order to grab his small hands within his own larger ones. “In my culture we have this saying. あなたは毎日私のために味噌汁を作るのだろうか？It’s a question that asks, ‘will you make miso soup for me every day.’ It’s horrible. It’s dated. I know it’s horrible and dated because my dad used it on my mom. And it really doesn’t even apply here because I’m pretty sure you don’t know how to make miso.”

 Pidge raises a brow in confusion. Is this how Shiro feels when he goes on a tangent? What exactly does soup have to do with any of this? And no, he cannot make soup, he couldn’t even microwave a plate of leftovers on earth without setting off the Garrison dorm smoke detectors.  

“So I suppose, what I’m really supposed to be asking is, Can _I_  make miso for you, sometime everyday in the future when the fate of the universe isn’t at stake?”  

“Shiro,” Pidge’s voice cracks again because he’s very, very confused and trying so very hard not to let the pin prick tears he has agonizingly trapped between his tear ducts and lower lids to fall. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” his shoulders fall slightly in defeat.  

“What I mean is um,” Shiro’s gone pale. It’s not often he has to keep speaking after delivery of “the speech” and its certainly easier to hide behind cultural metaphors and vague promises. “We can spar again if you want. We can play chess again if you want. I’ll pay through the nose to get you more Matcha if you want. I’ll sit by your side while you work on stuff at odd hours if you want. Because I still want all of that, but I need more time. More time to get whatever it is inside of me under control. After we stop Zarkon, or at least get to a place where our goals are in reach, I will devote myself to you. That is, if you still want me.”

 “Take it slow.”

 “Agonizingly so.”  

“I can live with that. There is a saying in _my_ culture…Any good game of chess makes you sit there and think about whether it’s a really good idea, and whether there are other, better ideas. A good game of chess takes time.”   


End file.
